


Bad Days

by Driver_Picks_the_Music (ava_jamison)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 19:55:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12778341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ava_jamison/pseuds/Driver_Picks_the_Music
Summary: Read below for WARNING: ATTEMPTED RAPEDean is briefly turned into a woman, and is set upon at a biker bar where he was trying to hustle his way (with a game or two of pool) to make enough cash for a room for the night. Things get ugly (WARNING for that - ATTEMPTED RAPE) but help shows up in the form of John Winchester.





	1. Chapter 1

“Watch it, buddy!” Dean yelled, his damn voice too high as he pushed at the guy but his new arms didn’t have the punch of his old guns. Or maybe it was just the short skirt. Shit, it’d worked in Sioux City—he’d hustled enough for a room, a six-pack and dinner in less than an hour. But here? He’d made a big mistake.

Every single thing in his life sucked right now anyway—Sammy gone, his dad pissed at him—hell, he hadn’t meant to fuck up and let that shapeshifter give him the slip, his dad hadn’t needed to run out on him too—case he had to take on alone, my ass, like Dean’d just fuck up anyway…

But on top of everything else—alone and tired and turned into a fucking girl until the next full moon, tonight one of these slack-jawed yokels had dosed him with something—drugged his beer, and his vision was blurring. Only half a dozen men in this shithole bar and it didn’t look like any of them were going to stop what these assholes had in mind. As best he could, room spinning a little, Dean gauged his distance to the door as he dodged, bruising his newly rounder hip on the pool table, and tried to smooth talk the guy, smiling, hands raised. As if he’d give in. “Hey, no, I get it. Don’t like losing to a lady, stud.”

“Or a sweet little piece of pussy, either,” somebody else said, way too close. “C’mere, little girly.” Shit. Trucker at 11 oclock. Then hands were on him, rough hands, wrapping around his forearms. Why the fuck had this seemed like a good idea again? He should have laid low until the spell wore off, and he would’ve—if he’d had enough money for a place to lay low. But the fucking witch—and man oh man, Dean Winchester hated witches—had gotten him good in St Louis and all he could do was ride it out.

Bad choice, ‘ride’ Dean had time to think, as the guy who wrapped his grip just above Dean’s elbows yanked him to him, pinning his arms between Dean’s back and the guy’s flannel shirt. Dean’s skirt got pushed up and he could feel the guy’s hard-on against his satin panties, trucker’s dick straining under the guy’s rough jeans, rubbing on the backs of his bare thighs. “So, who wants a taste,” the fucker said to his pals, the stink of his liquor ruffling Dean’s new, slightly longer hair as the loser breathed against his neck.

He turned on the old Dean Winchester charm. Hadn’t failed him so far—so far hadn’t been all that different since he’d turned into a girl. Hell, he’d been down on his luck, in a tight spot in Indiana. As a girl. Right after he got turned. And he’d charmed his motherfuckin’ way out of that. Dean Winchester, ladies and gentlemen. He licked his lips, winked at the guy in a gimme cap who was coming toward him, ahead of the other two.

“That’s it, girly,” Gimme Cap crooned, running a tongue over his teeth as he pushed up Dean’s little blue skirt. “Check it out, boys,” He moved enough that the men behind him could see what he was doing.

“No, wait,” Dean said, fighting against the arms holding him. Time to divide and conquer. “Why don’t just you and me go in the back, buddy?”

The man’s hand traced the edges of his panties, grinning. “You hear that, boys? She wants some time with just little ol’ me.” He touched the satin fabric, looking to the two men behind him. “Think I should do that?” he asked, slowly fingering through the panties as the others laughed.

Dean’s stomach heaved with sick woozy nausea and he hoped maybe at least he’d hurl on the fuckers.

The guy started to pull down his panties.

“No!” Dean said, but his chance to say anything or even throw up was cut off when somebody else grabbed one of his wrists and the guy holding him clapped a dirty hand over his mouth. Dean tried to bite, but the guy was a pro and all he could do was yell against his palm, barely making a sound. His heart hammered in his chest so hard he thought he’d explode. He was not going to get fucking raped in a bar in motherfucking Blue Hill, Nebraska. He hadn’t survived everything else for that. But as much as he struggled, the sweat of fear making his arms a little slicker in the guy’s hold, it wasn’t doing any good. He was helpless, and after everything else? Losing Sammy and hunting alone and fucking up every other thing in his life… this was just more than he could deal with, fuck him. He bucked in the guy’s arms, bringing his knee up, gonna slam a heel into Gimme Cap’s foot, but he fucked that up, too.

“Uh uh, little girly.” A guy in a red plaid shirt shoved his leg back down and held it there, huge ugly hand on his smooth bare thigh. He tilted his head, grinning at Dean, and used his other hand to slide his index finger under the crotch of the panties, shoving inside. He leaned close to whisper in his ear. “Nice pussy, girly.”

“Let me see,” guy number four said, gold tooth glimmering as he sneered.

“Let’s all see,” Gimme Cap said, grinning even wider as he hooked fingers under the panties, making Plaid Shirt move his hand to get them down to mid-thigh. Plaid Shirt whistled as more skin was bared for view.

“Well, looky here, boys.” Gimme Cap said. He ran a thumb over Dean shouted a garbled threat, twisting to try to get away.

“Buckin’ for it, ain’t she? Whiskey breath said, pressing his lips to Dean’s neck.

“Sure is,” the fourth guy said, crowding close. “Let me.” He brought stubby fingers to Dean’s cootch, sliding them roughly inside. “I can feel her fighting, boys! Hot and wet.” He stuck a wet finger into his mouth and sucked on it, watching the tears well up in Dean’s eyes. “Gonna make her scream for it,” he promised, thumbing her clit.

Gimme Cap, meanwhile, was zeroing in on tits, running his hand on the bare stretch of skin between his blouse and the skirt. “Can’t forget about the tits, can we?”

“Uh uh,” the guy holding him down said. “Don’t you worry, baby. Won’t forget any little thing.” He mouthed Dean’s neck, then used his teeth, sucking a stinging bite into the skin.

“Please,” Dean said, tears streaming, trying to make eye contact with any of them. But his words were muffled by the guy’s hand and there wasn’t any way they were stopping until they’d used him. His head spun as Plaid shirt shoved him forward, face down over the pool table, and the others held him there, pinned, as one of them, two of them, maybe all three, palmed and slapped his ass. He cursed against the hand over his mouth, struggled so hard he was going to have friction burns on his pelvis and on the cheek pressed into the green felt of the table but it didn’t do any good. Behind him, he heard a man unzipping his jeans and Dean squeezed his eyes closed, seeing bright lights behind his eyelids, shaking as he felt his body and brain go into full panic mode.

The bar’s door opened, and Dean opened his own eyes to see moonlight streaming in from outside. Out of his range of blurry vision, a heavy boot thudded on the wooden floor of the bar.

“You want a piece, too?” one of the men said as the steps came closer.

“Girl’s got plenty to give,” said another voice. “You can have her as soon as we’ve tired her out,” a voice in his ear as one of them flattened themselves behind and over him. Dean felt sickness pool in his stomach, crying out uselessly behind the hand that was shoved over his mouth as some creep’s dick smacked against his inner thigh.

“No way to treat a lady,” a familiar, deadly quiet voice said.

“Hey, wait,” Dean heard Gimme Cap say, but the next sound was of bone and flesh, and a body fell to the floor, Dean watching him fall as he fell under the table. Another sound just like it, and another, and suddenly the man who’d been pressing him down into the pool table, trying to worm his dick into him, was off of his back, but pulling him down with him, and they both fell under the table. The thing clipped Dean’s chin and bit his lip, tasted blood.

Dean raised himself up to a sitting position, pulling his panties up and leaning back a little on the table leg to fight the way his head spun. The guy who’d been holding him down now had his own arm pinned behind his back, and the guy behind him yanked, Plaid Shirt’s arm breaking with a snap before the man dropped to the floor, nursing his broken arm. Two of his other attackers were crumpled to the floor and the fourth was nowhere in sight. Just his dad, strong and brave, holding out a hand to Dean. “Miss,” he said, voice low and so damn real and good that Dean almost hugged him right there, almost said “Dad!” but didn’t, instead taking the man’s hand, Dad’s grip sure and good and real, like home, as he pulled Dean to his feet. “John Winchester, Miss. You alright?”

Dean tripped a little, stumbled against the table, and his dad caught him, hand under his armpit, steadying him, tipping him against the hard flesh of his chest, warm even through layers of John’s shirt and jacket and the thin little top Dean had pulled on. He looked down at it, and there was a rip, exposing the strap of bra and the swell of breast under that. John looked too, and shrugged off his jacket. “Take this, sweetheart.” He wrapped it around Dean’s shoulders, and Dean hadn’t even realized he’d been shaking until Dad smoothed it over his arms. It smelled like Dad, or maybe Dad smelled like Dad, his breath tinged with whiskey and cigarettes as he took Dean’s chin in his hand. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, voice gone husky.

“What’s your name, honey?”

“I…” Dean mentally ticked off coming clean. There was no frikking way he was letting his dad know how bad he’d fucked up. “I…”

But Dad took his hesitance for what? Adrenaline? Fear? What the fuck? He was still Dean Winchester, and there was no way he was freaked out by having some droolers try to feel him up…all of this ran through his mind as his dad pulled him close, but by the time the man’s arms had wrapped around him, those thoughts were gone, and he found himself, still shaking, pressing his face against a warm chest to take a shuddering breath.

John raised his big strong hand and used it to gently pet his hair, shushing him with little nonsense noises—kind he hadn’t heard from the guy since Sam had been a baby.

Dean could have stayed that way a long time, but he didn’t. Not when he was getting snot and mascara—was it the waterproof shit he’d lifted from the Walgreen’s three states ago? He moved to pull away, but John’s big, heavy arm came up to rest on his back, and Dean had to stand there a minute more, breathing in the smell of his dad—cheap detergent and a little sweat and maybe a little Old Spice.

John rubbed his shoulder, and when he spoke, Dean felt the man’s chest rumble against him. “Sweetheart, you want to get out of here? I don’t know how long these—”

“Fucking rapists,” Dean muttered, suddenly remembering where they were, what was going on outside of his dad’s hug. He would’ve kicked the closest guy, the one who looked like he was coming to but faking it to avoid another Winchester ass-kicking, but that was just too much trouble, and he’d have to move outside the circle of his dad’s arm, wrapped around his shoulder, to do it. So he didn’t, and let dad lead him to the car.


	2. Chapter 2

His dad walked him around to the passenger side of the truck and opened the door. Dad held out his arm and Dean just stared at it like a retard for a minute before realizing he was offering Dean his arm for leverage. He took it, wrapping his hand around Dad’s forearm to climb in. Dad bent, then reached down to get something, lying in the gravel. It was the heel to one of Dean’s shoes.

Dean stared down at his feet. Yeah, it’d come off his shoe. Fucking cheap heels he’d ripped off in Joplin. His feet were numb from the cold and he missed his boots, stowed in the trunk of the Impala. And shit, his leg was bleeding. He didn’t even know when he’d done that.

“Where’s home, hon?”

Dean blinked for a minute. His dad’s words were coming from a football field away, and what the hell kind of a million dollar question was that anyway? The Impala was across the parking lot, back behind the shitty motel where he’d left it while he hustled enough pool to make a room.

“The hospital?” Dad turned the key and the engine purred into life. “Your leg’s cut, sweetheart, and…” he just let the words hang there, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

Dean looked down at himself—his bleeding leg, his knuckles, both torn up.

“You want to go to the hospital?”

“No sir.” Dean shook his head, trying to clear it. “No, no hospital.”

“Police?”

“Cops?”

Dad nodded. “If you wanted.”

“No.”

Dad pulled out of the parking space, truck crunching over gravel. “Let me take you home then.”

“Not… not here. Home’s not—home’s not here.”

“You on the run, kid?”

“’M not—”

“From around here?”

“No, but—”

“Uh-huh. Just passing through, then.” Dad was using that tone that meant he knew when somebody was bullshitting him. He stopped at the edge of the dive’s parking lot. “Look, kid. Where do you need me to take you?”

“Nowhere,” Dean said, not knowing—what the fuck was he supposed to say? “Let me out. I’ll walk.” And he could. The Impala was like… a block away. He could get in his baby and take off, put this place and the whole fucked up mess behind him. He had enough gas to get a few miles down the road. Sleep in the car tonight, somewhere in the middle of a field if he had to, even if it was so cold he could see his breath.

“Where’s your family?” Dad said, and fuck, Dean wished the guy would let it go.

“Just… look, thanks, but—” he reached for the door but dad flicked the locks down.

“Your mom wouldn’t want you out here, honey, not like this. Where’s your mom?”

“Mom’s dead.” He couldn’t help himself.

Dad’s eyes went all… sad then and his grip tensed around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.” He looked down at his hands like he was forcing them to relax. “You got an old man?”

“He—I…” Dean fought to keep his voice steady but he was losing. And no friggin’ way he was crying in front of his dad. He swiped a hand through his hair. “I ran away,” he finally said, hoping the lie would keep him together. Better than admitting that his dad ran out on him.

In the low light of the dashboard, dad’s forehead creased. “Brothers? Sisters? You got anybody?”

“No.” Dean’s eyes burned and he swiped at them, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why you gotta make me say it?”

“Sorry kid. Not trying to be an asshole.” He started the car again and pulled out onto the highway.

Dean looked at the blood on his hand—must have come from his face—and blinked back the way his eyes were trying to water. “Where we going?”

“Saw a place, up the road. Coffee.”

“I think somebody put something in my drink back there.”

Dad looked at him, squinting. “Sure you don’t want to go to a hospital?”

“No,” Dean said. “I’m fine.”

“Tough kid, huh?”

Dean didn’t answer.

They rode without talking for a while. If his dad heard his stomach rumble, he didn’t say anything about it. When he pulled to a stop in front of some mom and pop, Dad said, “Wait here.” In just a few minutes he was back, knocking on Dean’s window and handing him a Styrofoam cup. “It’s hot, sweetheart. Be careful.”

“Thanks.”

Dad nodded, handing him a handful of sugar and creamer packets. “Didn’t know how you took it,” he said, almost embarrassed. “Be right back.”

Dean rolled up the window and watched his dad go back inside the diner. Guess the old man wanted coffee too. He leaned back in his seat and drank the stuff—not the best ever, but not too burnt. Probably only about six hours old. He stared up at the dark night sky and got himself together. Or tried to anyway, glaring at the fucking moon. Two more days of this shit. He could fucking get through it, too. Would, and then any freaking witch who crossed Dean Winchester’s path had better watch the fuck out, because—

His dad climbed back into the driver’s seat, handing him a paper bag before he started the truck.

Dean just sat there for a minute, feeling the road roll beneath the truck, the white paper bag warm on his lap where his dad had shoved it, the smell of good, greasy food filling the cab of the truck. For the first time in like a million years, his mouth quirked up in a small, honest-to-god smile. “Thanks.”

“Eat it, it’s getting cold.”

The fries were on top and he went for them first—the big home fry kind—before reaching under them to grab the burger. When he did, under the soft, paper-wrapped burger, his hand touched the crinkly plastic shell—triangular—“Pie,” he said, swallowing the lump in his throat. “You got me pie.” He smiled for real this time, looking down into the bag. “Apple.”

“Eat your fries before they get cold.”

He didn’t have to be told twice. Dean chowed down, chasing cheeseburger with the end of his coffee.

“You ride in with one of those truckers over there?”

Dean looked up to see the fucking bar he’d almost been raped in. “What? No way, man,” he said around a mouthful of burger and fries.

“Okay,” his dad said, “so what? You just show up in this town earlier today?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Where were you planning on staying tonight?”

Dean paused, fry halfway to his mouth. “Hadn’t got that far.”

His dad sighed, pulling off the highway, and Dean saw that like father, like son, he was pulling into the same dive motel Dean had picked out for the night. Even though he didn’t have a room and the Impala was stashed around the other side.

Dad killed the engine. “No way in hell I should be doing this,” he said, turning to Dean. “But you look like shit, honey, so bad there wasn’t any way I was taking you into the diner looking like you’d been worked over.” He pulled the keys out of the ignition. “Come on.”

Mouth full, Dean looked from his dad to the motel room door he’d pulled up in front of. “Yeah, it’s mine,” dad said. “Two beds.” The words came out muffled because he was running a hand over his face. “All they had.” He shrugged, watching Dean, then reached for the door handle. “I’m not going to try anything, kid. Just don’t know what to do with you.” He slammed the car door and came around the other side, opening Dean’s. “Never did tell me your name, sweetheart.”

Dean pointed to his mouth, conveniently full, and grabbed the trash out of the cab, along with the bag and his piece of pie.

John rolled his eyes. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Dean limped along behind him. The room was warm—dad must have checked in earlier and turned up the heat. Dean could tell from the amount of crap and the way it was laid out that this was his first night in this shithole town.

“Sit down, eat your pie.” Dad pushed him toward the shitty chair next to a crappy table at the window and disappeared into the bathroom. He came back with a wet washcloth and sat on the edge of the closest bed, holding it toward Dean like he was going to use it, then hesitating. “You better do it. You got blood on your face.” He sighed, putting the rag down on the table. “Hell.” He got up and went back into the bathroom, emerging with two plastic cups, and grabbed his duffle from the other bed, dropping it on the bed he’d been sitting on. “I’ll take this one. Closer to the door.” He dug a bottle of Jack out of the bag and ripped the plastic covers off of the cups. “You old enough for this, sweetheart?”

Dean nodded, still working on his pie, and swallowed. “Damn straight.”

Dad rolled his eyes again. “Well I need it.” He poured them both a couple of fingers and knocked them back like Dean hadn’t seen him do in since right after Sammy left.

Dean downed his whiskey, hot and sharp on his tongue, warming his throat and his gut. His dad must’ve caught the longing look he gave the bottle, because he poured them both another shot. “Deserve it after what you went through tonight, kid.” He touched his cup to Dean’s. “Self-medication at its finest.”

“Thanks.”

They both sipped this one slower, warmth pooling in Dean’s stomach, now finally full again. He was still wearing Dad’s jacket, even though it was too hot in the room for it. Better than a ripped shirt, though.

John frowned. “You need to get cleaned up, kid.” He dug in his duffle again. “I don’t know what your story is, and hell—I don’t care. I haven’t slept in two days, got a job to do three states away and don’t have time to take in any strays.” He pulled out a shirt—long-sleeved, buttoned up the front. “Go get yourself a shower. See if you need stitches on that leg or anywhere else. Take this. Your top’s ripped.” He shoved the shirt at Dean. He poured Dean one more shot, raising an eyebrow at him. “Go. Take it with you if you want. Rest is mine.” He leaned back in his chair. “Can’t believe I’m crazy enough to let some kid stay with me, but you didn’t leave me much choice, did you?”

“No sir.” Dean stood and almost fell—would’ve, except his dad’s hand shot out to grab his arm.

“Watch it. You’re missing a heel, kid.” Dad slowly released the grip on his forearm. “You okay?”

Dean nodded, falling back into the chair.

Dad looked down at his shoes. “Cold out there for those.” He reached down to unbuckle the straps on his sandals.

“All I got right now.”

Dad eased off his shoes and Dean grabbed the shirt he’d been handed in his fist. “Thank you, sir.”

“No problem, kid. And it looks like that cut on your leg’s not too bad.”

Dean looked down at his calf. “Doesn’t look like I need stitches, no sir.”

His dad tilted his head, looking at him a little oddly. “Know much about stitches?”

“A little. I take care of myself, if that’s what you mean.”

“Okay, honey. Go. Clean up. I need some sleep.”

The shower was good. Hot and good. Dean steamed up the room—hell, he had permission, didn’t need to hurry out but… his legs were starting to turn to rubber. Adrenaline, dinner, Jack, hot water—all of them, probably. And suddenly, as he was pulling back on his underwear and the shirt Dad had given him, he felt a jolt of fear—like maybe this had all been a way for Dad to ditch him again.

But when he opened the bathroom door, Dad was still there, fully dressed on top of the covers but out, softly snoring on the bed closest to the door. Dean pulled back the covers on his own bed and climbed in, feeling the scratchy motel sheets and the soft cotton of his dad’s shirt. It smelled just like him.

In the morning, though, he’d been abandoned. There was a note that said, “Good luck, kid. Got to get on the road. Stay out of trouble.” With the note were three twenties, a ten and a five, and on top of that, the broken sandal, heel now repaired.


End file.
